I caught cold.  Three days later I came home to see how my dear, good Vassya was getting on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that has little flowers on it.  Vassya, of course, I did not find at home.  I went into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the samovar, and there I saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like playthings.  I ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too.  I ate very little, but only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at once —­spasms . . . spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, I am dying.  Vassya runs from the office.  Naturally he clutches at his hair and turns white.  They run for the doctor. . . .  Do you understand, I am dying, dying.”

The spasms began at midday, before three o’clock the doctor came, and at six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o’clock in the morning.

It strikes two. . . .  The light of the little night lamp filters scantily through the pale blue shade.  Lizotchka is lying in bed, her white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background of the red cushion.  Shadows from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns on her pale face and her round plump shoulders.  Vassily Stepanovitch is sitting at her feet.  The poor fellow is happy that his wife is at home at last, and at the same time he is terribly alarmed by her illness.

“Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?” he asks in a whisper, noticing that she is awake.

“I am better,” moans Lizotchka.  “I don’t feel the spasms now, but there is no sleeping. . . .  I can’t get to sleep!”

“Isn’t it time to change the compress, my angel?”

Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and gracefully turns her head on one side.  Vassily Stepanovitch with reverent awe, scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers, changes the compress.  Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water which tickles her, and lies down again.

“You are getting no sleep, poor boy!” she moans.

“As though I could sleep!”

“It’s my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman.  The doctor has prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn’t understand my illness.  It’s nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my nerves.  There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness may take a bad turn.”

“No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!”

“Hardly likely!  I am not afraid for myself. . . .  I don’t care, indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you!  You’ll be a widower and left all alone.”

Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife’s society, and has long been used to solitude, but Lizotchka’s words agitate him.

“Goodness knows what you are saying, little woman!  Why these gloomy thoughts?”

“Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it.  You’ll even get married again.”

The husband clutches his head.

“There, there, I won’t!” Lizotchka soothes him, “only you ought to be prepared for anything.”